Best Main Course Poems
As I walked into the banquet hall of the
Goodman’s Inn, the first thing that stood
out to me were the eyes of the people. I
felt as though I could actually see hope. Eyes
seemed to sparkle and everyone in the hall
sat talking to the others sitting around them
as they waited for the main course of the evening.
To understand this report we need to go back just
over a year ago when Lindsey Long won the 50
million dollar lottery. Apparently the multimillionaire
booked the Goodman’s Inn for December 24th through
to January 2nd of this year solely to house the homeless
over the Christmas holidays. Miss Long walked through
the streets herself over the last week inviting the
unfortunate homeless to come to the motel for these
festivities. Lindsey Long has not only provided the rooms
for this week, she also has clothed them with new
wardrobes and warm winter clothing and accessories.
Now as the people sat around the table they were
told Miss Long had an announcement. We all waited
to hear what this amazing lady had to say
and excitement filled the room. When this
beautiful young woman began to talk there
wasn’t one dry eye in the building. She told them
how she was not going to just send them back
on the street next week but how she had
built a new centre that would have sleeping
facilities and showers to accommodate all
of them. This new facility will be serving
three meals a day which will be prepared solely
from themselves on a voluntary bases.
The feeling in the Inn that night was pure joy
and as the people realized the impact of this
wonderful news, they all broke out singing
It Came Upon a Midnight Clear. This is
Rhonda Reeds reporting for
The Good Newspaper.
Merry Christmas everyone.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
11.12.2014
Sponsor Mystic Rose
The Good Newspaper
1st
A poem unlived
is a poem merely written --
sustenance our words
let the body digest with heartfelt
regurgitation – a poem unlived
is a poem merely written
as well as tasty center, a healthy chew
needs skin-like peachy, tickly sensation,
emotive mastication – best often
lost when discarding fussy peelings
also feelings
a poem unlived is a poem merely written
endless editing...crumblings tossed
our salads before the main course
heavily garnished
each poem with a dipping
thread link – we warm at
the lava lip...deep, glowing
convulsing start, long before the page is stirred,
shaken – ready for bubbly tip
a poem unlived is a poem merely written
the sea we sail both tranquil and rage
creation an unkempt voyage of possibilities,
a nameless work rocks back and forth
cradled it longs to escape wild fluctuation
and transverse,
seeking theme and form – sanguine
transfusion, repetitively jabbing for fluid release
we call upon the mariner, captain, surgeon of
ancient crafts -- muse of many incarnations,
sage, fool of countless courts – both wallflower
and dancer – homebody and restless prancer, where
we have been and yet beam
to go – uniquely fermented we uncork
for a spotlight blow, for grand revelation
introduced with a toast, a click, a sparkly
crystal glow
staging both our fond darkness and
light – an author preparing to take
literary flight
a poem unlived
is a poem merely written --
like stopped midstream
without a river flow, banks
turned away
tepidly applauding….
A stagnant sip before the
moved-by lauding….
Though poetically smitten
dearly kittened
a poem unlived
is a poem merely written...
When Octopus came round for tea,
it was a tricky time for me.
Not knowing what he’d like to eat.
I wondered... savoury or sweet?
I borrowed spoons from Mrs Deggs
next door, for each of his eight legs.
I ‘d heard, if cross, black ink he’d squirt.
I worried... main course or dessert?
I know you’re thinking ‘do the two’
but he doesn’t eat like me and you,
his tummy’s really very small,
he can’t eat very much at all.
I fast flicked through my cooking books
and gave the clock face frequent looks,
but soon the door bell went ‘terrrinnggg’
Oh gosh! Hot pie or cold pudding?
‘Terrrinnggg, terrrinnggg’. Eight times it rang
and then he used each leg to bang
eight times upon my door. I rushed
to open it, and past he pushed.
“Please hurry up and let me in”
he squealed, and I thought, through the din,
‘He must be hungry for his food,
that’s why his manners are so rude’
But still I didn’t have clue
(a secret between me and you)
what I should feed the octopus.
I wished he ate like one of us.
I closed my eyes and made a wish,
Into my thoughts popped ‘Jelly fish!’
It sounded like the perfect meal,
much tastier than jellied eel.
Ooh, seafood with a fruity taste
and wobbly too. I cooked with haste,
and while I wondered what he’d think
I gave him sea water to drink.
He drank it through a straw, with ice.
He smiled and said “That’s rather nice,
but now I really need my dinner
before my legs get any thinner”
The Jelly Fish I boiled and froze
and put some parsley up its nose.
It was neither jelly nor a fish
but I served it on a silver dish
and asked before it passed his lips
“Do you want it with ice-cream or chips?”
He chose to have a bit of each,
both garnished with a slice of peach.
It all went down with one loud SLUURRRPPP
close followed by a great big BUUUURRRRPP
'Twas the night before Christmas, I’d forgotten the sprouts
So I sent out a plea to the local boy scouts
I’d remembered the crackers, the turkey and ham
but my guests would expect sprouts, so I was in a jam
The scout leader admitted that I was in a pickle
and he said my family were all somewhat fickle
I said Uncle Bert just adored eating brussels
then he’d fart for days with his lax sphincter muscles
The scout leader had a plan, it is so well thought out
He'd call each scout’s mother to donate just one sprout
Every scout hurries round with one sprout in their hands
soon I have plenty of veg to sate my guest’s demands
On Christmas Day the relations ring my door bell
Pat barges into my kitchen; she makes my life hell
At one time she cooked meals for guys in the Navy
So she has to check if there are lumps in MY gravy
On the stroke of one o’clock I dish up the food
Uncle Bert belches loudly, that man is so rude
They devour all the turkey and round stuffing balls
By the end of the main course I’m climbing the walls!
They don’t offer to help, so I fetch the dessert
Uncle Bert drips brandy butter all over his shirt
Then they guzzle the cheese and finish the wine
Bert then farts profusely, he’s a disgusting swine
Then we sit round the TV to listen to the Queen
Bert’s eaten too much, his face has turned green
Pat gives me a present, of a hand knitted jumper
It’s three sizes too big, I just want to thump her
They’ve descended on me these last fifteen years
I ask if they’ll reciprocate, my words fall on deaf ears
They never say thank you, they drink all my booze
Next year they can whistle, I’m booking a cruise!
He loved a drink did ol'Johnny McBeal
And offered to cook the thanksgiving meal
All the trimmings with turkey
For their friends and family
His wife agreed but no drink was the deal...
On the big day he was up before five
But with no drink knew he wouldn't survive
Found a bottle of sherry
Then started to get merry
Guests arrived and the bird was still alive...
Johnnys wife said " you've ruined thanksgiving
The turkeys gobbling and it's still living
There is no main course
I want a divorce
I'm upset and I won't be forgiving"...
She then reached out for a sharp carving knife
Johnny was shaking in fear for his life
She wanted the turkey dead
Who ran out the door and fled
Johnny thought she is one demented wife...
Johnny was determined to save the day
And phoned Mcdonalds for a takeaway
Ten turkey burgers arrived
Ol' Johnny's marriage survived
Then before dinner they knelt down to pray...
And what became of the McBeals turkey?
He was found terrified up in a tree
His poor life was spared
By someone who cared
Now lives in peace in a bird sanctuary...
Written 16th November 2021
Her chopsticks are at the ready.
Her hands are good and steady.
She likes to knit her noodles!
The task has just begun...
She starts off with a mango Welt
With pride, with zest, with tang.
It's a mesmerising watch
While the wiggling noodles hang.
Next. She's on to saucy Stocking Stitch.
Her garment sure does grow!
Knit one - Purl one - Knit two together
On each tasty row.
And this main course is called
" Knit Purl Chopstick Cha "
With a curry Cabled centre,
With sides of paprika Purl and Knit korma.
And as an extra taste-bud treat
BBQ Rib Raglan is on the menu.
Trust me! This kind of cuisine
Can't be found in any old venue!
From there on, the sleeves do drop
Like the soy sauce shaken a top.
Neatly Knitted are the Ribs.
Who voted for fish and chips?
To finish this fine course...
Knit - Slip - Knit - Pass Slip Stitch over.
This will make the button holes
For the Cadbury chocolate to melt all over.
And on completion, these knitted noodles
Slide straight on down her throat...
Before we've had a chance to prove her skill
This talent to others gloat!
That colourful drug, love.
Phenomenal pheromones.
Give me love potion No.9.
It works devine.
That colourful drug, alcohol.
I want to drink it all.
In moderation of course.
Along with the main course.
That colourful drug, prozac.
For those anxiety attacks.
Get my life back.
I'm on the right track.
That colourful drug,E.
A strange one to me.
Missed out on a drug scene,
when I was teenage beauty queen.
That colourful drug, weed.
Home grown from seed.
Kept my husband sedated.
His sexual appetite abated.
That colourful drug, fun.
Let's have some.
Jump in my car.
We'll travel far.
That colourful drug, laughter.
Is the one I'm after.
Best medicine, so addictive.
The perfect fixative.
your hand brushing mine
those long smoldering glances. . . .
my appetizer
the taste of your mouth
a smorgasbord of kisses. . . .
the scrumptious main course
the perfect climax
sweet like death by chocolate. . . .
our luscious dessert
Written Jan. 26, 2012 for Francine Robert's
Romantic Senryu Contest Poetry Contest
"Hurry!"
"Hurry, you've gotta see this!"
She yelled at me from a hundred yards down the beach ...
So I ran, barefooted, as fast as I could to where she stood
But when I got there ... nothing!
Just her smile as she nipped her bottom lip
"Gawd yer sexy when you run in the sand," she said
Are you kidding me - there's nothing here??
"Oh, I wouldn't say that I was ... nothing" she answered
She did have a point there
"In fact ... since you ran all this way"
She took handfuls of her knee-length hair and lassoed me with it
Pulling me into the dunes and marsh grasses
She had laid out a blanket, neatly
With a basket of food and wine, wrapped in red plaid
"That's dessert, cutie-pie," she motioned
But what about the main course?
She smiled again, falling back onto the blanket
Right hand grasping my belt
"Me," she winked.
Oh, the taste of sweet mangoes
While relaxing on a Caribbean beach.
Such a refreshing way to watch the sun
Setting on the blue and calm horizon.
This sweet mango is such an appetizer
Preparing the pallet for the main course.
Stimulating one’s stomach for a feast
With visions of the coming dish,
The main flavor of the day.
Oh, I like tasty mangoes
The setting sun, and
Caribbean beaches.
From the table of their heart
The poet lets the reader feast
Providing them a banquet of
Emotional delicacies
With humorous appetizers
And delicious uplifting desserts
The main course can be anything
The poet dares to serve
It can come from the loft of happiness
Or the basement of despair
With tears of pain or laughter
Poured out to quench the readers thirst
Poured into crystal stemware
That sits upon the table of their heart
All are invited to this banquet
To taste the many treats
And dine on emotional delicacies
At the poets feast
She has abounding beauty and long may it stay,
Far deeper than looks,
It keeps aging at bay,
For she is a fair maiden,
The cream of the crop,
As sweet as ice cream, with a cherry on top,
She seeks but a man to complete her life,
To stand by her side through trouble and strife,
But good men are rare as rare as fine gold,
And she needs one quickly before she grows old,
A man of good breeding, to make her smile every day,
Who will bring rays of sunshine and make clouds fade away,
Oh what should she do as ‘Players' abound,
She just wants a man who’s as sound as a pound,
Well here is the secret, go heed my advice,
Just find a man who is much more than nice,
You find a man who is not so unkind,
As to make love to your body, before making love to your mind,
Talk about carts before horses, talk about gain before pain,
Such habits of men can drive women insane,
Yes the main course should be mind, through the meeting of hearts,
As two become one, now that’s where it starts,
But men are so vain, so they suffer in pain,
But suffer they do and suffer they should,
Until they understand, they must cut out the hurt,
They must savor the main course, long before the desert.
Tree Top Dancers
and Circus Clowns
The neighbors moved away.
They said nothing to anyone,
they just left.
New people took the home.
There was a big truck.
It was full of boxes,
and a TV.
It was jam-packed with animals...
and cages and crates,
and statutes of...
Greek women holding water vases,
Greek men with harps.
The truck itself was all blue.
Funny, even the tires.
Odd.
I watched as they unloaded other things;
a giant clock that rang...
from the time they took it from the vehicle,
until it went... inside... (hushed tones).
There was a deep freezer,
the size you could fit six grown men...in.
One on top of another...
a side; by side by side by side, by side, by side.
There was a trunk with a hunchback,
and then a hunchback with a trunk.
What can I say... they were a pair,
I had to stare.
Unfair, I looked away.
Then the mom, and the dad...
came rolling up the drive.
They were in a giant bread truck;
made of cowhide?
A dozen kids on the back,
and even a few on a rack?
A lively crew of gypsies.
Carnies, forced to retire;
from long days,
now gone.
The circus, the show,
the festival of colors;
no more...
Come to a new place,
to put on a new face,
to leave no trace,
of all that was left behind.
Yet how do you start a fresh life,
from a comfortable place you always lived,
upside down, right side up,
cheers all around,
and elephants that danced,
giraffes that sang,
and popcorn was the main course;
at dinner.
Now everyday life,
full of strife,
trying to make things right,
somewhere in the world.
The clowns still make some laugh,
at every funny gaff,
even if...
it is not in a big shoe,
or under a giant tent.
Be happy.
It is a choice.
The medicine man lifted up a baby girl
To the heavens like a cherished rare pearl
He called upon the gods to send a spirit
To posses the babe they named Little Irit
He enters a trance chanting in a voice that was throaty
Summoning up the cursed fiery eyed Coyote
Before the beast he lay Little Irit on a bed of leaves
A sacrifice to rekindle the gods favour, in which his tribe believes
He walks away with no remorse
As the child is left for the Coyote’s main course
It’s an hour later that the medicine man returns
The sacrifice is accepted by the evidence or earth that burns
Medicine man enlightens the chief by the light of crescent moon
That Cursed Coyote has lifted their gloom
The Chief calls the elders to make a great feast
In honour of the fiery eyed cursed beast
When the villagers were drunk and all well fed
They sat round the campfire telling stories before bed
Then suddenly out of the fire, cursed Coyote pounced causing fear and dread
As he slowly gnawed off the medicine man’s head
The chief ordered every man to kill the beast
After the battle, Coyote lay dying and around him lay 150 deceased
Coyote said to the chief, “Your son’s lives will I claim,”
“For the little life you sacrificed, you will all feel my pain.”
The chief cut the Coyote’s head and mounted it on high
For all those to see as they walked on by
If you go there you will see an inscription explaining the reason why
They thought, that was the end of the curse and Coyote had to die
But the head of Coyote would bring a curse that would make the village cry…
To be continued…. ( for P.D. My good friend )
if i'm a judge
then don't
judge me
i will sip
a bit of
this
one and then a bit
of that and then
all the others
six at hand
or should
i say
at mouth and tongue
soups alphabetically
which have different
degrees of tastes
after all how
does one
take a taste of haiku
and try to compare
au contraire to
that spicy free
verse not even
melodically
sonorous to the palate
of course simply
a first course
not to even
be paired
with any
whine
yet shall i dine on as tis
my duty to decide that
which is the best
recipe needing
no certain
form
so how to juggle a dessert
poem with a main course
one or even trying
to stuff in a
seconda
i cant
i'm no critic but merely
a hiccup in what is
a smorgasbord
of words and
wonderment
the winner is
BURP!!!!!!!